


Back To The Wind

by KrashAndBurn



Category: USWNT - Fandom, Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:50:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrashAndBurn/pseuds/KrashAndBurn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You knew that once you ingrained the image of her back into your memory, nothing else could replace it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back To The Wind

**Author's Note:**

> [2nd person, Ashlyn's POV. Just a short one-shot to get it out of my system.]

It was a difficult sight to forget. Practicing day in and day out, standing in your tenuous spot between the posts, every moment on that field was a gift. Third string keeper on arguably the best women's national team in the world, you’d be lucky to play two, maybe three matches a year. Which means you have to make your short time count, and throw your entire being into your work. When you get the call-up for a friendly, you’re overjoyed, confident in your position and intensely focused and ready to do work. And the fact that you get to spend 90+ minutes with the perfect view? Nothing could make you happier.

Of course, there’s not much to do, what with the best competitive defense keeping the field clean directly ahead of you. From your spot at the top of the 6, you can pick out Cap, Broon, Bue, and Ali (Ali, whom just before the match you put your arms around and held until her anxious shudders slowed, Ali who is _never_ nervous before playing, Ali, your rock, until she’s not) controlling the speed of play with ease, executing tight passes amidst attacking forwards and playing balls long across the field to switch up play when necessary. They make your job easy, almost too easy. You catch yourself slacking off, drifting in and out of concentration on the ball. You’re more worried about Ali and how shaken she was before exiting the locker room with the rest of the team, quickening her pace when you reached for her shoulder and hastily taking a place in line far out of your reach. From your position far back from the main action, all cameras fixed on following the ball, no one watching can see the discomfort flash across your normally stoic expression. No one’s close enough to be able to pick out the tightness of your lips pressed together, brusque and controlled, trying your hardest to betray nothing. Especially not in front of her.

You hear Cap yell to your teammates to get back, and the command with which her voice carries across the pitch snaps you back to the present. Tensing your legs, you drop into a half-crouch, arms in front of your chest with your gloves up, readying for any oncoming pressure. You watch as Cap drops back to right in front of you, 15 yards ahead but still in your sightline, cutting off any possibility of blocking any long range shot. It’s up to Bue and Ali, who are rapidly crossing the field and each other’s paths and tracking opposing forwards, trying to cut off the runs threatening your territory. As Ali pushes her mark towards the left sideline, she crosses not three yards in front of you, close enough to reach out and grab and express with the gentle touch of your dirt and sweat-stained glove that you didn’t mean it. You didn’t mean to push her away last night. You didn’t mean to jump up and bolt out of your shared hotel room, you’re not like that, the type to run from danger like a spooked deer. By the time she’s directed her opponent safely out of goal-scoring range, you’ve completely lost track of play and instead tracked the way her pure-white kit swishes against her back as she jogs back up-field. As play settles back into a rhythmic push and pull, Ali turns her head back for just a moment, enough to catch your eyes on her, and she quickly returns her gaze back to the midfield, so fast that you can’t be sure whether or not she caught the apology in your eyes.

You blink once, twice, trying to clear the lasting doubt from your head. She has every right to ignore you, and you know it. The only sight you deserve to see is Ali’s back to you, fixated on the nothing but the ball and how to keep it from ever reaching you. But what a sight it was. It was a difficult sight to forget, whether she was wearing a kit or not. The soft, breathable material, emblazoned with the pride of the nation, falling snugly to hug the curves you knew to be uniquely shaped, perfect for running your hands over. It was a miracle how soft her skin stayed even through the eternity of your hands, rough with calloused skin from years of grasping at dirt and grass and soccer balls, running over it. You would never tire of looking up into her sparkling eyes, full of trust and, if you looked closely enough in the darkened room, love hidden behind years of weathered pain. Her hips pressing you down against the mattress, slight legs pressed against your thicker, outstretched calves, her weight nothing more than a welcome addition to yours as you lifted yourself up to catch her lips with yours. Gripping her back with want and need, you allow yourself the luxury of taking the time to seek out every ridge of her spine, the spaces between her shoulder blades that, if you deftly slipping your fingers into, you were rewarded with a gasp and ensuing nip on the lips, which only served to increase your grin and spur on your explorations. Before you know it, you can map out every inch of her delicate, forgiving back, lean and muscled, without a moment’s hesitation. And you know exactly which muscles now bear reddened bite marks and interspersed kisses. You hope her kit doesn’t rise up too much during her frenzied runs up and down the pitch tomorrow.

Your mouth was always what got you in trouble, and looking back, last night was no exception.

Of course it was your fault that she bypassed you on the down to breakfast the next morning, awkwardly sidestepping your approach, eyes locked on to the swirled design in the carpeted hallways. You didn’t try to stop her, figuring she deserved space. Even the word ‘marriage’, uttered so softly you weren’t sure she had even heard you over the deliciously satisfied moans uttered into your neck, was enough to shatter the moment you had so delicately curated. It had just slipped out in the heat of the instant, and even though you hadn’t meant to let down your defenses and allow such a vulnerable slip into your feelings, some part of you had decided that if you didn’t let her know _right now_ about your intent to propose, it would never happen. Her head shot up, knocking into your chin into your upper jaw, effectively muting the apology you had already prepared and were about to spout out, anything to diffuse the situation your fucking impatience had caused. Her eyes widened. Was she paralyzed with fear? Worried about slamming into your head? Your heart? You didn’t give yourself the time to think about it. All you knew was that you had to leave, right now, before she could bring your entire future down with a simple word. Before the feeling came back to your jaw you were up and headed towards the door, hastily picking up pieces of your meticulously chosen outfit strewn across the floor. Ali just sat and stared as you pulled on shoes, shirt, and finally your jeans as you reached the door. Left hand on the knob, you stood there, heaving breaths in and out from the adrenaline and fear pumping viciously through your veins. One last, stabilizing mouthful of air heavy with silence, and you twist the handle of the door, exiting the room so swiftly that you missed seeing the longing in Ali’s eyes, wet with tears, missed her measured movement down to pick up your forgotten jacket and clutch it tightly between her fingers.

You were last off the pitch after the final whistle. You didn’t trust yourself to resist rushing to her in celebration, and you certainly didn’t want to scare her off again. Instead, you settled for watching her jump into Cap’s arms, kit rising just enough that you can make out a fading bruise near the base of her spine, jubilant congratulations shared amongst your teammates. A small smile escapes your still-gritted look, and you allow yourself a short moment of satisfaction. You did what you came here to do, in more ways than one. You’ve proven your worth and your intent, and there was nothing left to do but prepare for the next match. Sticking your gloves in the back of your shorts, you take one last look across the field, savoring the dwindling instant of instant gratification. Avoiding the circle of celebratory players, you instead head straight to the locker rooms, brushing off screaming fans pressing jerseys and posters in your face. You’re grateful for the silent solitude offered by the empty room, and for a brief second you relish the space that holds nothing but you and your thoughts. You slip out of your keeper’s kit and throw your cleats into your bag, engrossed in the actions and oblivious to the body that’s slipped in behind you.

You don’t notice Ali until she’s pulled your arm, turned you around to face her shyly beaming features.  All thoughts of packing forgotten, you’ve become engrossed in the beautiful sight of both of your drenched faces coming together, sweat and tears and all, and you’re pulled into her soft lips, able to taste the effort of 90 minutes and the almost silent “yes” that she breathes into you.


End file.
